


Bringing the Wolf to Heel

by sillythings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Asoiaf - Fandom, game of thrones
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sillythings/pseuds/sillythings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quickly written drabble inspired by a series of posts I saw on tumblr about Sandor getting his tummy rubbed.  Not particularly original, but I had fun!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing the Wolf to Heel

Sandor Clegane lolled contentedly atop the furs of the bed he shared with his lady wife. The marriage ceremony beneath the weirwood in the Winterfell godswood bound him to Sansa Stark less than a fortnight ago, and while they had taken every opportunity to take to their chambers to discover new delights of the flesh, Sandor was beginning to realize that less carnal pleasures were to be had in the marriage bed as well.

 

Here in the aftermath of their loving, Sansa ran a soft palm down his chest to his hard, muscular belly and up again. Delicate fingers ruffled the fine black hair that covered his skin. The touch was sensual but not designed to spark desire. They were sated, for now, but he enjoyed her soft caress across his belly and back again, tracing his navel and back to the other side of his chest, feeling his pectoral muscle tense as she scratched lightly.

 

His eyes were closed and he sighed deeply, happy to have her touch him, to look at him in the fading light of the afternoon. Scandalous behavior to take his wife to bed after the mid-day meal, while the sun shone in the sky and everyone else in Winterfell was busy with the task of mending the castle and bringing it back to its former glory. Scandalous, not that he cared. He would care if Sansa were bothered by it. He would never stand by and let her be shamed ever again, not by anyone, not even himself. But it had been her idea, and who was he to say no to his lady? They all had their duties, and his was first and foremost to his wife. If she wanted a good rut in the middle of the day, he was happy to serve.

 

But it wasn’t just a rut. Never could be with her. Her palm slid to his face to stroke his hair, the pads of her fingers tracing over the leathery scars on his face, stroking the twisted skin as she learned every inch of him in the light. He used to snarl at her to look at him, look him in the eye, dared her to face the monster that he was. Now she seemed to delight in looking at every bit of him. He was not shy. Gregor may have ruined his face, but the life of a soldier had given him the body of the Warrior himself. The only part of his body that brought him shame was his face, and he had lived with that laid bare for all to see for over twenty years. Most did not look, it was true. Their eyes quickly slid away, just like the Little Bird’s used to do, but not Sansa’s, not his wife.

 

A tenderness he only recently became aware of welled inside him at the intimacy of her touch and the gaze of her blue eyes on his face, never turning away from him. Not now. He opened his eyes and saw her smile as she ran a finger along his jawline, moving down to rub the day’s stubble on his neck. Like him, she was bare, and her soft breasts brushed his bicep as she leaned over him. He registered their softness, felt a slow stirring of warmth deep in his belly, but it would wait. He closed his eyes again and felt her tickling fingers move to scratch behind his ears, his scalp before starting their journey downward again, finishing the circuit at his belly, running her nails lightly through his hair, scratching, lightly, lightly.

 

He made a sound suspiciously like a growl in the back of his throat while Sansa rubbed his belly. She’ll have my hind leg shaking like the old hound, I am, he thought wryly. He stretched in contentment, as she alternatively rubbed and scratched. His eyes flew open. He was surely a dog, but was she actually treating him like one? She _had_ scratched behind his ears. He thought a moment.

 

And he’d _liked_ it.

 

Well, if that was the way she wanted it…

 

He sat up quickly, displacing Sansa who sprawled onto her back and threw him a startled look. He narrowed his eyes. “What is it?” she asked, “What’s wrong?”

 

He searched her face for any sign that she was teasing, any guile. It was difficult. She was damn good at lying, despite what he’d once told her. She had learned well over the years in King’s Landing and while in Baelish’s control. Sansa stared at him, apparently genuinely confused. _Apparently_. He leaned over her and sniffed her, running his nose along her neck, into her armpit, down her side.

 

“What are you doing?” she began to giggle, but he continued his assault.

 

“Treat me like an old dog, will you?” he rasped into her ear, “Pat my belly and scratch behind my ears, and think I’ll roll over?” Sansa turned her head to look him in the eye. “Think you’ve brought the Hound to heel, mistress?”

 

“What? No! I-I just like your fur,” she had the good grace to blush, “I mean your hair. It’s so soft and warm and the rest of you is so hard—“ He raised his brow, the only one he had, suggestively at her. She shook her head, “I mean your muscles, Oh! You know what I mean!” the last came out in an irritated huff and she gave an ineffectual shove against his shoulder.

 

She liked his body. Yes, he believed that, but there was something in her petulance that smelled of a lie. The wolf was teasing the dog. He bent his head again to sniff at her with his large nose, putting out his tongue to taste the salt on the skin like the animal he was. She let out a soft little gasp and her fingers found his hair again, clutching tightly. He idly wondered if she would feed him under the table if he begged. Maybe just a taste of honey. He grinned at the thought. He raised his head and saw her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure. He sat up and gave her a swat on her flank.

 

Sansa’s eyes flew open again. “What are you—?” she huffed out, primly indignant. He grasped her under the thigh and pulled at her. If he was a dog, she was his mate, the wolf in a little bird’s feathers.

 

“Turn over.” He barked. Sansa’s eyes were wide, but they sparkled and she flushed prettily under the demanding heat of his gaze.

 

“Why?” she asked breathlessly as she obeyed his command, lying flat on her belly in the furs. She gave a tiny, excited wiggle. He admired the curve of her buttocks before giving her another light smack on her rump, provoking a yelp.

 

“On your hands and knees.”

 

Sansa rose up, slowly and shyly, peeking at him over her shoulder. Her red-brown hair fell across the smooth skin of her back. Sandor brushed her hair aside and nipped the back of her neck, a biting little kiss.

 

“What are you doing?” she whispered. An eager little shiver ran down her back.

 

Sandor bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Showing you what happens with you tease an animal. It’s past time you learned what dogs do to wolves, my Lady.”


End file.
